Ghost of a Life
by BJ Thompson
Summary: While dodging the Mafia, Joe helps Clay Belmore resolve his guilt concerning his son's death.
1. Chapter 1

Please read and review. Thank you.

Ghost of a Life

Chapter One

Thursday morning, Peggy Fair opened the office at 17 Paseo Verde at its regular 9 AM time. She piled a stack of files from the M-R drawer on her desk. While Joe was out of town, she was finally getting the spring file cleaning out of the way. After taking a sip of her tea, she dived into sorting through the mess of files on her desk. Absorbed in the details of deciding what could stay and what could go, she was surprised by a man entering the office.

"May I help you?"She noted the dark blue suit, crisp white shirt and black tie. Being a policeman's widow, she knew when she was talking to a law enforcement officer. A certain way they walked into a room like they owned it.

"I want to know why you were looking up information on John R. Regan."

"What? How did you know . . . who are you?"

The man pulled a ID wallet from his inside coat pocket and held it open to Peggy's face. She read 'U.S Deputy Marshal Matthew Petrosian.' He whipped his ID back into his coat pocket.

"Regan? I got a call from my boss asking me to look up some information on him."

"What type of case is he on and where is he?"

"Um, I don't . . . think . . ."

"Don't make me take you down to the federal lockup as an accessory to conspiracy to murder."

"Murder?"

"Answer my questions: What type of case and where is he?"

"Missing persons case out of Chicago. He's tracking down an heir to a fortune for a law firm – Morley, Olsen & Blevins. They said the other detectives they hired had no luck finding the heir, so on the recommendation from another law firm, they hired Joe to find Regan."

"Where was he when you last talked to him?"

"Yesterday. He's in St. Louis."

"Damn, can I use your phone?" Peggy nodded and Petrosian picked up the phone and dialed. "Hey, Rich, yeah, St. Louis . . . have Rivera start checking the hotel . . . " He placed his hand over the handset, ". . . what hotel?"

"Sheraton on Fourteenth Street."

". . . the Sheraton. He may still be there. If not, the airlines and rental car companies . . . he's getting close . . . yeah, we know where he's headed, not where he is . . . might have to move him . . . yeah, okay."He hangs up.

"You want to tell me what's going on?"

"There is no inheritance, no heir to a fortune. Joe Mannix got hired by the Mafia to bird dog someone in the Witness Security Program. You'd better hope we find him before he finds our witness because as soon as does he as good as dead."

mannixmannixmannix

Clayton Belmore, Senior was as spare as the few wheat stalks in his fields, 400 acres spread out south of Enid, Oklahoma. The rain dribbled like sweat down his brown skin and hid his early morning tears. He replaced his dingy John Deere cap on his head and used his handkerchief in his back jeans pocket to wipe away both the tears and the rain.

Every morning, rain or shine, snow or mud he climbed the small hill. Clay's hill Louise had always called it. The hill held the graves of the Belmores that had lived on the family farm. His eyes ran across the names on the headstones of his father and mother, his wife, Louise, his grandfather and grandmother and so on since 1889.

His eyes always stopped on the white marble headstone of the last person to be buried here – Clayton Belmore, Junior, August 4,1951 – April 30,1972. Every man in the Belmore family had served their country honorably in war, but only Junior had died in combat.

He remembered the knock on his door, the shock of being told his son had died, and the army was nominating him for the Medal of Honor. He didn't care; he didn't want a medal; he wanted his son back. He wanted to take back the last words he said to him.

He turned from the graves and swept his eyes across his mostly unploughed fields. This spring he had managed to plant only the plot of land next to Fox Road. He inspected the clearing sky. At least with the early morning rain he wouldn't have worry about watering today. He removed his rain slicker and walked down the slope to his old Dodge truck. He tossed the slicker into the bed of the truck. The chickens could wait until he got back from Enid.

Coming from his driveway onto Fox Road, he detected a depression in his wheat field. Damned kids, he thought, throwing something like a car bumper in the field and crushing his wheat. He pulled to the side of the road to inspect the damage.

As he waded into the field, he saw a hand laying between the stalks – white hand. He discovered a man laying face down in the wheat. Where'd he come from? No cars, no other people. Nothing out here but the wind and wheat.

Belmore felt the man's wrist for a pulse. Not strong but he was alive. He searched the man's body for other injuries; no broken bones that he could feel, mostly scrapes and bruises, and a small gash on his forehead.

Belmore noticed something in the man's right hand. He pried the hand open and found a crumpled envelope. After stuffing the envelope into his jeans pocket, he shouldered the man in a fireman's carry to his truck and laid him in the bed. He used his discarded rain slicker to cover him. He climbed into the truck cab and raced to St. Mary's Hospital.

mannixmannixmannix

Sal Vincenti wasn't comfortable on the wooden park bench. He sat across the street from St. Mary's Hospital. The rain had driven him indoors to the hospital cafeteria for a while. As he left the cafeteria, he grabbed a local newspaper and returned to the bench next to the phone booth to watch the emergency room entrance. He watched the lazy comings and goings of a small town hospital. People coming on shift and people going home. No ambulances with screaming sirens, quiet for a hospital.

He almost missed who he was waiting for. An old yellow pickup truck arrived at the emergency entrance. He watched a colored guy in a dingy green cap get out and enter the emergency entrance. Not more than thirty seconds later a doctor and an orderly with a gurney followed him out of the entrance to his truck. The doctor scambled into the truck bed and examined whoever was laying in there. With the help of the colored guy and the orderly they lifted a body onto the gurney. Vincenti recognized the dark brown pants and the pale yellow shirt. Somebody had found Mannix.

Vincenti watched as they wheeled the unconscious man in the emergency room. He would ask about Mannix later. Until then he would stay parked at his front row vantage point. After what happened last night, he needed to keep his distance. Inside of his suit coat, he touched the butt of his gun for reassurance. When Mannix led him to Johnny Russo, then it would be time enough to kill him and Johnny.

mannixmannixmannix

Deputy Tim Powers readied for another shift on his Garfield County beat. His light brown Stetson hat keep his unruly mop of sandy brown hair under control. Uniform pressed and Wellington boots shined, he was coming on duty when he was dispatched to the hospital at the request of Doctor Hampton. Someone had been brought into the hospital unconscious and injured. When he arrived he noted Clay Belmore sitting in the waiting room and wondered what he was here for. Since his son had been killed in Vietnam, Belmore had been scarce around Enid. He noticed the man's belt tip wrapped around almost to the small of his back and his jeans were two sizes too large. He had become a ghost, not at all the man he had been.

Powers looked away and scanned the corridor for Doctor Hampton. A treatment room door opened. The doctor emerged from the room scribbling on a medical chart as he walked toward the deputy.

"Morning, Tim."

"Morning, Doc. What's going on?"

"Clay Belmore brought this man in." He motioned toward the black man sitting in the waiting room. "He's got a concussion, a cut on his forehead, bruised ribs and other contusions and cuts. Oh, and a touch of pneumonia. Probably been laying in that wheat field all night in the rain."

"Really? What caused his injuries?"

"Well, if it wasn't for the fact that Clay said there were no cars around where he found him, I would have said he was in a car accident. There were glass bits in his hair and the bruises on his ribs are consistent with impact with a steering wheel. Maybe his head hit the windshield."

"But no car where Clay found him? Is he conscious? Can I talk to him?"

"He's coming around. I don't know how lucid he'll be."

Powers walked over to Belmore. "I'd like to get some info from you. Stick around."

"Is he going to be okay?"

"Looks like it."

"Don't have all day to stay around here. Got chores."

"Just relax. I'll be right back."

The deputy left the waiting room and followed the doctor to the treatment room. The patient laying on the treatment table had a slim build, dark brown hair, and looked to be about six feet tall. His clothes laid on the floor in a muddy heap. He was draped to his waist with a hospital sheet. A small gauze bandage and white tape covered his forehead. Powers noted the cuts and scrapes on his arms and face and the bruises on his chest Hampton had described. The man's eyes fluttered open trying to focus.

"Where . . ."

"You're in St. Mary's Hospital. What's your name, fella?"

The patient stared at Powers, brown eyes panicking.

"I said, what's your name?"

"I . . . my name," he seemed confused, struggling. "I . . . don't . . ."

"That concussion may have caused a temporary loss of memory – amnesia," Hampton whispered to Powers.

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

"I . . . was . . . running . . . dirt road."

"Anything else?"

"Running . . ." The patient lost consciousness.

"He'll be out for a while." Hampton pulled a penlight and checked his patient's pupils.

"How long is this amnesia going to last?"

"Can't tell. Next time he regains consciousness he might remember who he is and what happened or maybe not. The brain's a funny thing when it's been hit that hard."

"Okay, Doc. I'll send Barb over here to fingerprint him and send the prints off."

The deputy returned to the waiting room and pulled out his notebook.

"Okay, Mr. Belmore, you want to tell me what's going on? Doc Hampton says you found this guy laying in your wheat field?"

"Yeah."

"You know who he is? There's no identification on him. What was he doing in your wheat field?"

"You the deputy. You tell me."

"Alright, no need to get excited. So you didn't hear anything last night or this morning? No cars?"

"No. Didn't hear anything. Saw this flat spot in the wheat field when I was driving by. Got to thinking that some kids might have thrown something into the field. Saw this white guy laying there. Put him in the truck and brought him here. Never seen him before. Almost forgot . . . here." Belmore pulled from his jeans pocket a crumpled plain white, sealed envelope soiled with mud and blood and handed it to the deputy.

"What's this?"

"He had it in his right hand."

"Maybe this will tell us who he is." Powers slit open the envelope with his thumb and pulled out the single folded sheet of white paper. The paper is blank on both sides. "What the hell? Who is he and what's going on?"


	2. Chapter 2

Please read and review. Thank you.

Ghost of a Life

Chapter Two

"Yeah, Mr. Russo in? Tell him it's Sal." Though the heat was in the ninety degree range, Vincenti closed the door to the phone booth. He sucked on his cigarette like it was the last one he'd get to smoke.

Russo came on the phone. "Mannix found Johnny yet?"

"Well, no. You see it's like this. He's in the hospital."

"Hospital? How did he wind up in the hospital? What did I tell you? Follow him and not to touch him until he found Johnny."

"Yeah, I know. It's like this – he had an accident."

"Yeah, how?"

"Well, uh, . . ."

"What did you do?"

"He sorta drove off a bridge into a creek because I was sorta chasing him."

"Sorta chasing him!"

"Uh . . ."

"Explain sorta."

"Uh . . ."

"I'm waiting and not for much longer."

"Sorry, Mr. Russo. I must have gotten too close and it tipped him off that I was following him. He tried to lose me on some country road and crashed."

"Okay, how's he doing? Is he gonna be okay? 'Cause so help me, Sal . . ."

"Uh . . ."

"Sal!"

"He forgot who he is."

"What!"

"The lady at the hospital said something about the cops looking for somebody who knows who he is. I guess he's got amnesia."

"I can't believe this! All you had to do is follow Mannix, have him lead you to Johnny and then kill them both. Goddamit, this is the closest I've been to finding that weasel son of mine and you blew it."

"Sorry, Mr. Russo."

"Stop saying that! Let me calm down and think. Okay, how long is he going to be in the hospital?"

"I don't know for sure. At least a couple of days."

"That gives me some time to get there. I've got a couple things to wrap up here in Chicago and then I'll be there. By the way, where are you?"

"Uh, I'm in Enid, Oklahoma."

"Where the hell is that?"

"It's north of Oklahoma City, about ninety miles."

"Does it have an airport?"

"I think so."

"Don't think, know. Find out for sure and call me back. Leave it to Johnny to find some out of the way place to hide. From now on keep your distance from Mannix. If he goes on the move, I want to know immediately and don't do anything but watch him until I get there."

"Yes sir, Mr. Russo." Vincenti heard the phone slammed in his ear. That was easier than he thought it would be. Being over a thousand miles away made a difference. The only thing he wanted to do is get out of this heat and into his air-conditioned motel room. Reluctantly, he returned to the bench across from the hospital.

mannixmannixmannix

Since his patrol day had been unusually busy, Deputy Powers hadn't had a chance to return to the hospital on Thursday to question the patient again. He barely had a moment to phone the two tow companies in town to let them know he was looking for an unreported car wreck. If Doc Hampton thought this guy had been in a car accident, that was enough for him.

It was almost Friday evening before he returned to the hospital with the hope that the injured man remembered who he was and what he was doing in Belmore's wheat field. He knocked and entered the darkened room.

"Evening, I'm Deputy Tim Powers, Garfield County Sheriff's Office. How you doing, Mr. John Doe?" asked Deputy Powers. He watched the patient's eyes open.

The patient coughed and rasped. "It's Joe not John,"

"Oh, now, you know who you are. What's your last name?"

"It's . . ." The man looked confused. ". . . I don't know."

"I guess we'll have to call you Joe Doe. Maybe this'll jog your memory." Powers handed him the envelope and paper.

The man opened the crumpled blank sheets and stared at them.

"Mr. Belmore said you were clutching these in your right hand. You thought it was important enough to hang on to."

"What is this – some kind of joke?" The man threw the papers across the room.

"You're the only one who knows what's happened to you." The deputy retrieved the papers.

"I see snatches of faces, darkness and then nothing."

"Let's try this again. Joe what?"

"I don't know what! Don't know anybody. Don't know why I'm here. And don't know how I got here. I don't even know where here is. And I feel like my head is going to split in two any minute."

"Take it easy. You're in Enid. That's in Oklahoma, in case you forgot that. And it 's Friday, June 8, 1973. We fingerprinted you. We'll know who you are in a few days."

"But that may be too late."

"Too late for what?"

"I don't know!"

"I went to Mr. Belmore's place and checked out where he found you. If there were any tire tracks or footprints or any other evidence, it's got washed away in the rain before he found you. All I got is a blank piece of paper and you."

"Could you take me to where Belmore found me? Maybe I'll remember something."

"Fine by me. Let me ask the doctor if it's okay." The deputy returned a moment later with Doctor Hampton.

"Tim says you want to leave the hospital. I would advise against it."

"What are my injuries?"

"A severe concussion, bruised ribs, pneumonia. I'd like to keep you under observation for at least another 24 hours."

"I can't." Joe began sitting up slowly in the bed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He coughed and held his ribs. "Get my clothes."

"What are you doing?"

"Checking out."

"You can't do that."

"Watch me."

"I won't be responsible for . . ."

"I've had enough concussions to know that the only thing that you're going to have me do is lay here for the next couple of days. I haven't got the time. Someone's life is in danger." Joe stood and swayed. "I'll sign a waiver."

Hampton jammed his hands into his lab coat pockets and rocked back and forth. "Right now, your pneumonia is under control. I'll release you if you promise to come back if your pneumonia worsens." Hampton headed for the door. "I'll give you a prescription for antibiotics that should help."

The man wavered on his feet and Powers placed his hand on the man's arm to steady him. "Maybe this isn't a good idea right now." Powers sat the man back on the bed. He found his cleaned clothes and shoes in the closet and helped into them. By the time Doctor Hampton returned with a wheelchair, Powers had him dressed.

The doctor handed Joe a clipboard. "Sign at the X."

The man signed 'Joe' then he hesitated and completed his signature with 'Doe'.

"At the first sign . . ."

"I know, doc."

The doctor handed him a bottle of pills. "Now get out of here before my better judgment kicks in."

Powers wheeled Joe through the hospital to his patrol car. "You know, Doc Hampton's pretty good. Dug a bullet out of me a couple years ago. . ."

Joe coughed. He barely listened to Powers. He was confused by his loss of memory. Every time he coughed his ribs hurt. He clutched the bottle of pills the doctor had given him. After he got into the squad car, he leaned his head back against the head rest and tried to find a position to sit in that didn't make his head hurt, make him cough, or make his ribs ache.

". . . sure you're alright? You're not looking so good."

"Believe me, I've been worse."

"How do you know? What do you remember?"

"I just know. I can't explain it. I know I've been hurt worse than this."

The twenty minute ride to Belmore's farm was punctuated by the chatter on the police cruiser's radio. Joe leaned back with his eyes closed. The sun's brightness multiplied his headache. He lowered the sun visor to shield his eyes. When they reached the dirt roads, he sensed the deputy easing the cruiser over the bumpier sections.

Powers turned onto Fox Road and stopped the cruiser at an angle facing the area of the wheat field where Joe was found. The deputy touched Joe's shoulder.

"We're here."

Joe opened his eyes and squinted through the cruiser's front windshield at the flattened wheat. He caught his breath, opened the car door and stepped out on the dusty gravel road. The sun was beginning to dip below the fields.

Standing unsteadily he used the car as his support. He stared at the wheat field and then turned to stare behind him at the other side of the road. He made another step toward the field when he sank to the front bumper of the police cruiser and held his head in his hands. Every time he moved, he felt like there wasn't enough aspirin in the world to cure all his aches and pains.

Powers heard the crunching sounds of footsteps and looked to see Clay Belmore coming toward them.

"How's he doing?" Belmore asked. Powers shook his head.

"Okay." Joe waited for his world to stop swirling around him. "No, I'm okay. Give me a minute." Joe took a deep breath, stood too quickly and almost toppled over. Powers caught him and leaned him back on the car.

"I'm okay."

"Yeah, you're doing great for someone with amnesia, a concussion and bruised ribs,"the deputy said.

"Take him to my house. He can lay down there,"Belmore said.

Powers helped Joe into the cruiser and slowly drove down the short, gravel driveway to Belmore's house. Belmore jogged up behind the cruiser. When Powers stopped, he helped Joe out of the car, up the stairs of his single story farm house and into the living room. He led Joe to the cushioned sofa and had him lay down.

"Thanks," Joe mumbled. He regretted his decision to leave the hospital. He closed his eyes and tried to stop the spinning and the nausea.

The deputy was half way out of his car when he heard his call sign. "Golf Three, come in." He leaned back in, grabbed the bottle of pills and tossed them to Belmore who had returned to the porch. "I've got to go."

"I'll watch him," Belmore said and returned to the living room as the deputy backed down the driveway and speed away in the evening dusk. He picked up the clothing laying on the armchairs.

"Sorry, my cousin, Delores generally comes by on the weekends to pickup, do laundry and cook." He grabbed more clothing and disappeared down the hallway into another room. He returned and switched on the living room ceiling light."How you doing?"

Joe used his left forearm to protect his eyes from the glare of the lights. "Not as well as I thought I was."

Belmore noticed that the light is bothering him, switched off the ceiling light and clicked on a table lamp.

"Want some water or something?"

"No, thanks."

"Got a few more chores to do before it gets too dark." The screen door squeaked and slammed shut.

After a moment Joe removed his forearm from his eyes and scanned the room. The rest of the living room held a two overstuffed armchairs, one with a table and lamp. The coffee table was in front of the sofa. The sofa he was laying on faced a fireplace. Centered on the mantle above the fireplace was a portrait of Martin Luther King flanked by framed photos of John Kennedy and Robert Kennedy. Beneath the King portrait was a framed Medal of Honor. He was too far away to read the citation on the award letter.

He closed his eyes and dropped into sleep. _Crash . . . _He shuddered. _Can't stand . . . crawl . . . head hurts. Dark, can't see. _Peggy? Where am I? _Go. . . fields. Hide in the fields. Stumble, fall, get up, keep going. . . keep going._ Peggy? Peggy? _Run . . . run._

When he felt a shake of his shoulder, he instinctively reached in the small of his back for a gun that wasn't there. He stopped holding his breath when he realized it was Belmore.

"Who's Peggy?"

"What?"

"Who's Peggy? You keep mumbling her name."

Joe thought for a moment. "I can see her face . . . she . . . I don't know."

"Feeling any better?"

"Yeah." His world didn't seem to be listing at a thirty degree angle. He gingerly sat up and found the room wasn't making orbits around this head.

"Got some place to stay?"

"Not yet."

"You can stay here if you want to."

"I don't want to impose on you. You've done enough . . ."

"You already flattened my wheat. What else could happen?"

"I don't remember who I am. I don't know how I got here or why." Joe coughed; his ribs ached. "Yeah, what else could happen?" He leaned back on the couch. "What's there to do in Enid, Oklahoma on a Friday night? Movies, drinking?"

"Don't need to go to town to drink. Got some scotch."

Joe grinned at Belmore. "I don't think Doctor Hampton would approve."

"He ain't here." Belmore vanished to the kitchen and brought with him two shot glasses and a half-empty green and yellow bottle of Cutty Sark. He poured less than a finger in one glass and handed it to Joe. He filled his glass almost to the rim.

"For what ails you," he toasted. Joe sipped and Belmore slugged his down.

Joe pointed to the mantle. "Your Medal of Honor?"

"No, my son's. Posthumously."

"I'm sorry."

"Me, too. Want another?"

"No, I'm good."

Belmore poured his glass full again. This time he sipped it. "Want a sandwich? I'm hungry."

"Sure."

"Ham and cheese okay?"

"Yeah." Joe placed his glass on the coffee table. The Scotch was not helping his headache or his sore ribs. He eased back on the couch carefully settling his head on the armrest. "Do you have any aspirin?"

"Yeah, sure." Belmore returned from down the hall and shook a couple of aspirin from the bottle into his hand. "What you want on the sandwich?"

"Mustard's fine."He swallowed the aspirin with a sip of Scotch.

"What's your name?"Belmore asked from the kitchen.

"Joe, that's about all I remember."

"I'm Clay. You think you'll remember what happened if you see where I found you?"

"I hope I can. That's why the deputy brought me out here. What else can I do? I've got to remember. I feel like someone's going to be killed if I don't remember."

"You a cop?" Belmore came in from the kitchen and brought with him two plates with the ham and cheese sandwiches on them. He handed Joe one plate and balanced the other plate on his lap as he sat in an armchair across from Joe.

"What?"

"You talk like a cop."Belmore chewed on his sandwich. "Only cops worried about someone else getting killed."

Joe weighed Clay's comment. "I don't know. Maybe. Was I wearing a holster or badge or anything else like that"

"Nothing but your clothes and that envelope."

"Yeah, a blank piece of paper."

"Somebody was messing with you. Don't nobody give somebody a blank piece of paper in a blank envelope unless they messing with him." Belmore finished his sandwich. Joe had taken one bite of his.

"Who did I get the envelope from? And where was I going with it?"

"Now you're definitely sounding like a cop. You want the rest of that sandwich?"

Joe passed Clay his plate. Clay was right. He wasn't concerned about his own safety but somebody else's even though he didn't know who to be worried about.

Belmore disappeared down the hallway, returned and handed Joe sheets and a blanket for the couch and a pair of pajamas.

"Here, these might fit you." He pointed down the hallway. "The bathroom's the first door on the right."

"Thanks."

Joe, feeling better, strolled to the mantle to look closer at the framed Medal of Honor. He read the citation.

_During a flight to medically evacuate severely wounded marines, Warrant Officer Belmore's co-pilot was killed and his crew chief badly injured. At great risk to himself he single-handedly landed his UH-1 helicopter to evacuate the wounded. Upon take off, he received wounds to his chest and arm from enemy fire. He managed to fly the aircraft to the 8055 Evacuation Hospital._

_After landing the aircraft,Warrant Officer Belmore refused all medical aid until the other wounded were evacuated for treatment. Before he could be removed from the cockpit, he died of his wounds._

_In the highest tradition of the United States Army, Warrant Officer 1 Clayton Belmore, Junior is posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty. . . _

Also on the mantle was a framed black and white WWII photo of Clay being awarded a medal. Joe examined it closely.

"You were awarded the DSC?"

"Yeah. Long time ago."

"Being a hero runs in your family."

"Ain't nothing to being a hero."

"You must have done something. They don't just hand those things out in a box of Cracker Jacks."

"Why do you care?"

"I'm not trying to pry. I was just . . ."

"Ain't none of your business. Leave it alone." Belmore slammed his glass of Scotch on the coffee table. "Time for bed. You need your rest."

Belmore retreated abruptly, then came back and handed Joe a Colt 45. "Keep that with you. Can't be too careful out here in the middle of nowhere."

Belmore noticed the way Joe handled the gun and then chambered a round. "Yeah, you a cop. Don't forget to take your pills." He locked the front door and withdrew to his bedroom.

Joe readied the couch for the night. After he slipped the 45 between the cushion closest to his right hand, he changed into the pajamas. He finished his scotch with the pills Hampton had given him. Not necessarily a good combination but anything he could do to dull the pain in his head suited him. He pondered his dream from his nap. Who was Peggy? And why did he remember only parts of what happened to him? Was he really in danger and did that put Clay in this mess with him?


	3. Chapter 3

Please read and review. Thank you.

Ghost of a Life

Chapter Three

Delores Reese turned off Fox Road into the Belmore driveway. From there she realized Clay was sitting on the front porch. What surprised her was that he had his father's Winchester rifle laying across his lap while he swung in the glider.

"Clay? What are you doing out here?"She got out of her car and removed a bag of groceries from the back seat.

"Nothing."

"With your daddy's rifle?"

"Got company. You watch him for a while."

"Him – who? What's going on?"She stepped up on the porch and glanced through the screen door to the living room.

"Letting that fella I pulled out of my wheat field stay here for a couple days. That's all."

"What fella? That's why you sitting up in here with that loaded rifle?"

"Don't worry. Watch him. Gotta go take my walk." Belmore propped the Winchester against the wall next to the front door and departed.

Delores opened the screen door and tiptoed into the living room. She saw a swatch of dark brown hair and a pale skin of a hand laying on the armrest. She peeked over the couch. The man sprawled on the couch was asleep in Junior's pajamas. The covers were half on and half off his body. A shot glass was tipped over on the floor next to the couch. What had Clay gotten himself into? She glanced back at the Winchester leaning next to door and then at the sleeping white man. She winced at the thought of not knowing what was happening and what could happen.

Joe, awakened by the sounds of pans rattling and the smell of bacon frying, twisted to look behind him into the kitchen. He gasped. Wrong move, his ribs protested. He saw a portly black woman in an apron with her back to him. When the pain in his ribs, subsided, he sat up on the couch. "Morning, that smells pretty good."

"Yeah."

Joe gingerly stretched his arms. He felt the start of a dull throb in the back of his head. He needed a couple of aspirin. He rose slowly, testing his balance. His chest didn't feel as congested. Besides the headache, he was on the mend.

He noticed a neat pile of a pair of jeans, a blue plaid shirt and underwear and socks on the coffee table. He grabbed his shoes and the clothing and slid the 45 underneath them to hide it from the woman's view, and went to the bathroom. He quickly showered, shaved, and dressed. Afterward, he took a seat at the table. "My name's Joe."

"Delores. Don't sit there. That's Clay's spot." She put silverware on the table for two. She returned to the griddle on the gas burner and flipped the pancakes over. Joe moved to the other end of the table.

"Got any coffee?"Joe asked.

"There's the pot. Make it yourself."

Joe found the old peculator next to the sink. He filled it with water and searched the kitchen cabinets for the coffee.

"Third on the left."

"Thanks." He found the coffee, measured for about three cups, plugged it in and sat back down at the table.

"How many?"

"How many what?"

"Pancakes."

"Oh, ah, three."Joe watched her slap the pancakes on a plate and then slam the plate on the table in front of him. Joe and the pancakes jumped. She plopped the bottle of Mrs. Butterworth next his plate. "Are you mad at me for some reason?"

"Damn straight. What have you gotten Clay into? I came here and he's sitting on the porch with a loaded rifle. Damn straight, I'm mad."

"Wait a minute, I didn't know he . . ."

"No, you wait a minute. You need to get up out of here and go back to where you came from. Whatever's going on, this house don't need no more trouble."

"Delores!" Belmore entered into the house. "You don't treat a guest in my house like that."

"Clay! He's trouble."

"I don't want to cause any problems. I'll go find a motel or something."Joe said.

"You got any money?"

"Uh, no."

"Last time I checked, you need money to rent a motel room. Eat your breakfast."

Delores dropped the platter of bacon, eggs and ham in the center of the table."I'll get the laundry started." She retreated down the hallway.

As Clay washed his hands in the sink, he noticed the coffee brewing.

"Who made the coffee?"

"I did."

Belmore retrieved a pair of coffee cups and poured a cup for each of them. He sat down at his place at the table and took a taste of Joe's coffee.

"Hope you get your memory back soon." Clay pushed aside his cup. "You forgot how to make coffee."

Joe reddened. "It always tastes like that."

After breakfast, Joe went outside, sat on the porch glider and inspected the farm. He noted that for a farm this size maybe only a quarter of the acreage was planted. Not enough to keep the farm this size glanced over at Clay as he stepped from the house.

"Here's some ugly-ass sunglasses Delores bought me. Probably look better on you than me." He handed Joe the sunglasses.

"Thanks."

"Got chores. Delores's here if you need anything."

"I'd be afraid to ask."

"Don't take it personal. She worries about me being out here alone. You take your pills?"

"Yes, Papa."

"The Winchester's on the inside of the door. What did you do with the 45?" Joe leaned forward and pulled up the back of the plaid shirt. The 45 is tucked into the small of his back with the butt sticking above the belt line of his jeans.

"Funny place to keep a gun."

"I don't know . . . it just seemed right."Joe pulled the shirt back over the gun.

"If you ain't a cop, you outta be."

"You need some help? I'd like to do something to repay your kindness."

"What's a city boy like you know about farming?"

"I . . . my pa . . . has a vineyard." Joe's face brightened. "I remember helping him. I'm from . . . California."

Clay looked at Joe's hands, not a callous anywhere. "Well, you ain't done any of that lately. I'll take care of the farming and you take care of the remembering."He ambled toward the barn.

Delores opened the screen door. "Clay, the girls are asking," she yelled after him. "Are you going to coach softball this summer?"

"Nah, ain't got time."He vanished through the barn door.

"Sorry about earlier," Delores said to Joe. "I worry about him."

"He must be proud of his son. The Medal of Honor and all."

"He don't care about that. He wanted Junior to come home and take over the farm like he did when he got out of the army."

"Do you know anything about his winning the Distinguished Service Cross?"

"He doesn't talk about it. Some say he should have gotten the Medal of Honor for what he did. Some say he didn't get the Medal of Honor because he was a black man." Delores wiped her hands on her apron. "I worry enough about him running around here all alone."

"If he earned the DSC, he can probably take care of himself. Why doesn't he hire someone to help him around here?"

"Since Junior died, he don't want no help." She points to a small hill with trees. "He goes up there every day. To visit Junior."

"How do you know he visits the graves everyday if you only come out on the weekends?"

"Sometimes I drive out before work and make sure I see him moving around."

"Does he know?"

"Probably. You need anything?"

"I'm fine."

"Holler. I'm almost done with the laundry."

She left Joe on the porch. He thought about what he had remembered. He grew up in California working with his father in a vineyard, but that had nothing to do with what he was doing in Enid, Oklahoma, two thousand miles from California. What he knew about himself was contradictory. He knew how to handle a gun and he acted like a cop not a farmer. He'd been in an accident, but nobody knew where the car was and where it happened or why. He realized he had escaped from someone, but again who and why? He wasn't going to get the answers sitting here. He stepped off the porch into the sunlight grateful for the sunglasses Clay had given him.

He paced from the driveway to the end of Fox Road and back looking for any clues that would trigger his memory. He searched the area of the wheat field where he had been found and crossed the road several times looking for anything that would tell him where he had been before he collapsed. Powers was right; the rain the other day washed away any evidence of where he'd come from. He couldn't imagine that he had walked or crawled down the road and then fell into Clay's field. He had to have come from somewhere else.

He trudged back to the shade of the porch. He needed answers and aspirin. His trek started his head aching again. As long as he didn't make any sudden movements, he could almost forget he had bruised ribs. The rest of his body was only sore and stiff.

Joe tired of sitting on the porch and climbed the little hill that held the Belmore cemetery. He eased his body to the ground and lounged against one of the trees providing the shade. He counted ten headstones. If he didn't remember what happened to him, somebody might be picking one out for him, but right now he wanted the aches and pains of his body to go away. Before long under the coolness of the shade tree, Joe drifted into sleep.

_Headlights . . . No! . . .splash . . . hit the windshield . . . then nothing. Hands pulling him from the car dragging him through water . . . on his back . . . crunch . . . pain, ribs. Searching his pockets, rolling him over. His head . . . _Joe? Joe! A hand jarred him awake. His right hand reflexively reached for the gun underneath his shirt. He stared up at the startled face of Delores standing over him.

She watched him replace the 45 in its hiding place.

"What are doing with Clay's gun?"

"Sorry."

She regarded him. "I left dinner warming in the oven, fried chicken and vegetables. Sandwiches on the table for lunch and lemonade in the refrigerator."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me. Whatever you're mixed up in, get Clay hurt and you'll have to deal with me. Gun or not. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."Joe had no doubt Delores would back up her threat. She glowered at him as she drove away.

mannixmannixmannix

Vincenti observed the Belmore farm through the binoculars as he stood on the roof of his car. Mr. Russo was arriving at the Enid Airport later today. He'd be there in plenty of time to pick him up. And then Mannix would need to do some remembering.

mannixmannixmannix

For a while Joe sat and listened to the hot breeze of the late morning rustling through the trees and the wheat fields. He realized what he didn't hear was the sound of tractors or any other farm machinery nearby and he hadn't seen Clay since breakfast.

As fast as his battered body would take him he checked the house and the barn. Clay's truck was still in the driveway. Wherever he was, he had to have walked. He returned to the hill to surveyed the rest of the farm. A large, silver metal maintenance shed stood on the other side of a vacant field.

His dread powering him, he traveled down the hill. As he crossed the field, he noticed a windsock at the far end billowing in the wind. He kept moving; he was out in the open and an easy target. As he approached the shed, he drew the 45. One of the twin sliding doors was opened about three feet. He peeked in and saw Clay sliding a cleaning rag across the riveted surface of a Piper Cub airplane. He exhaled, and stepped into the shed with the gun pointed to the ground.

Clay glimpsed the 45 in Joe's right hand. "Plan on shooting somebody?"

"I hadn't seen you in awhile. I was worried about you."

"You worried about me?"

"I'm worried enough for both of us." Joe put the 45 in its hiding place in the small of his back. He ran his hand along the wing feeling the flushness of the rivets. "She's a beauty. You a pilot?"

"Nah, not me."

"Your son's?"

Clay continued to buff the outer skin of the plane. "Know something about planes?" he asked.

"I . . . flew jets in the Korea. I learned how to fly in one of these. I haven't flown one of them in years."

Clay removed a flask from his back pocket and took a drink.

"Can I have a taste of that?" Joe took a small sip and handed the flask back to Clay. "You want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what? Ain't nothing to talk about."

"A landing field and a plane in a shed. Only a part of the acreage planted. I think there's a lot to talk about."

"None of your business."

"You made it my business when you pulled me out of your wheat field and took me to the hospital. You made it my business when you let me stay here until I can remember what happened to me."

"You ain't family."

"Maybe not but you're the only family I have right now. A person who cared enough to take me to the hospital and make sure I was alright. I'm in some type of trouble and still you put yourself at risk by letting me stay at your home."

"Didn't do nothing special."

"No, you didn't do anything special. You just did the right thing."

Clay swiped at the sparkling surface of the plane."That's what I tried to teach Junior. Do what's right. Yeah, I did what's right." He hit the fuselage with his rag. "I threw him out of the house because he didn't want to be a farmer." He hit the plane again. "Yeah, I did what's right." He struck the plane again and again with the rag. "What did I do? What did I do?" Clay slid to the dirt floor the flask falling beside him. Joe settled next to Clay.

"You didn't do anything any other father wouldn't have done. My father did the same thing to me. The land couldn't hold me either." Joe picked up the flask. "I bet he wanted to fly from the time he was a little boy."

"Built him a play airplane from a crate and wood scraps. He played in it for hours."

"You knew then, didn't you?"

"Louise, his mama, died right after he graduated from high school. She told me before she died to let him go, but I couldn't. I couldn't. Wanted him here with me. Wanted to give him what my daddy gave me – the land the Belmores have owned for almost a century. Wanted to give him a future. Why wasn't this good enough for him?"

Joe drank from the flask. "I can't speak for your son, but for me, all I could think of was I'd be doing the same thing my pa was doing until I died. It scared me. I was afraid my whole life would be in that vineyard. I'd be stuck there the rest of my life and I couldn't live my whole life there. So I went off to college on a basketball scholarship and then the Korean War started. I came home before I was sent to Korea. The entire time I was home all I did was argue with Pa about the vineyards. Mama tried to be the peacemaker. He pretty much told me if I wasn't coming back to his vineyards, don't come home ever again, so I packed my dufflebag and left."

Joe passed the flask to Clay.

"But you came back. You had a chance to straighten things out between you."

"Yes and no. I came back, but we didn't get this straightened out between us until about five years ago. At least now we can talk without getting into an argument."

"So why are you remembering all this and not what happened to you a couple days ago?"

"I do remember but only in pieces. I see faces and remember someone was chasing me. I can't remember why. I think I was looking for someone."

"A relative?"

"No, my family's back in California. Sometimes I can almost I can touch . . . I'm supposed to be . . ."

"Did you forgive your father? You know he was trying to do the right thing."

"You fathers have a funny way of saying 'I love you'. Did your son ever write to you from Vietnam?"

"A letter came the day after he died. Never read it."

"I'd say he forgave you. Do you still have the letter?"

Clay nodded. "On his dresser, in his G.I. Joe footlocker. Wrote him a letter. Never mailed it."

"Why?"

"Don't know." Clay placed the flask on the ground between them. "Guess I was scared, too. Do you think he'd would've come home?"

"He is home." Joe inclined his head toward the little hill. "If he didn't want to come home, he would have asked to be buried in a military cemetery."

The simple truth of Joe's statement staggered him. Junior had returned home to his farm, to his father. Clay stood and walked out of the shed to the cemetery with Joe trailing behind. From his shirt pocket, Clay pulled a folded, ragged letter, the letter he'd been carrying around since before Junior died. He stopped in front of Junior's headstone and unfolded his letter.

Every day in the last year he had stood in this same spot wondering if his farm was worth the guilt. He questioned whether he had been more afraid of losing his farm than losing his son. Whether the Belmores owned it or not, land would always be here.

Clay finally read his letter to Junior.

"Dear Clay, I want to apologize to you for what I did and said. You . . . a grown man and you can make your own mind up about your life. I've . . .always dreamed . . . of our working the farm together . . ."

Clay wept like he hadn't done during his son's funeral. He wept for all the words he shouldn't have said and for the words he should have said.

Joe placed his hand on Clay's shoulder. He took the letter from the sobbing man's hand and continued reading for him.

"Your mother knew what I wouldn't admit. Before she died she tried to tell me to let you go. That if you really wanted to, you might come back to the farm after you were gone a while, but it had to be for you decide not me.

The farm is yours if you want it. If not, please come home to visit. I'm sorry for what I said. Please come home."

Joe refolded the letter and gave it back to Clay. Joe had wondered what would have happened if he hadn't returned alive from Korea, how his father would have felt. Through Clay, he glimpsed what could have been his father's anguish.

"Did you your father ever forgive you?"Clay asked.

Joe thought a moment. "No, I don't think he ever forgave me. He learned to live with it."

Clay pulled an old blue bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his face. "Thank you."

Joe smiled. "Hey, how about lunch? Delores left us some sandwiches and lemonade."

Before they reached the house, Deputy Powers drove up.

"Afternoon, Mr. Belmore. Joe, Flint Jones found your car. It's nose down in a creek in the next farm over. How about taking a look?"

"Of course. Coming, Clay?"

"Go on without me." He glanced back at the hill and then at the house. "Got something I got to do."

"Let's go," Powers said.

Joe hesitated. "You sure?"he said to Clay.

"Yeah, go on. We'll talk later."

"Okay."

Joe and Powers departed as Clay disappeared into the house.

"What was all that about?"

"Learning to forgive yourself."

"What?"

"You had to be there."

Powers drove to the wreck. "Still having trouble remembering anything."

"Faces, some things, but pieces to a puzzle I can't put together because I don't know what it looks like. Nothing that seems to have any connection with what I'm doing here. I need to know what happened to me here."

"Maybe seeing this wreck will help you."

mannixmannixmannix

Anthony Russo was as short as Sal Vincenti was tall. He never let his lack of height keep him from letting others know he was the boss. Even in the afternoon heat he wore a suit and tie. Vincenti had stripped down to a shirt and slacks. He watched through binoculars as Powers and Mannix left and Belmore entered the house. Russo handed the binoculars to Vincenti.

"So that's Mannix. The word is he's a pretty tough guy."

"He can't be too tough. His brains got scrambled when he ran his car off that bridge. He can't even remember who he was. We'll find out how tough he really is. Right, Mr. Russo?"

"He'd better get unscrambled, real quick or he'll be permanently fried."

Vincenti moved toward the car.

"Where you going?"

"The cop's gone, I thought . . ."

"You thought? Don't think. I do the thinking. We'll wait a little bit."

"Sure, Mr. Russo. Anything you say."

"We're going to need that colored guy. Keep an eye on the house."

mannixmannixmannix

Clay opened the door to Junior's room. He stood there a long time remembering his son. He looked at the model planes, his son's bat and glove, his desk and books and his dufflebag in the corner with unopened box of Junior's personal items from Vietnam. He stroked the bat and walked over to the dresser. The old, worn photograph of Junior in the wooden plane Clay made for him was jammed in a corner of the dresser mirror. Clay touched the footlocker gently. Clay Belmore, Jr was written on it in a childish scrawl. He took the footlocker from the dresser, sat down on Junior's bed and held it on his lap. Finally he opened it.

He read the letter and like Joe said, Junior had forgiven him. He knew his father didn't mean what he said. His letter talked of his everyday life as a helicopter pilot. Inspecting his ship before take off, talking with his crew chief about that hesitation in the turbine when he pours on the power to lift. About his flight crew and the only time the chow is any good is on the holidays. His trip to Japan on R&R. What it's like to fly at night. How much he loves flying. On how when he gets home he wants to take his father up in a plane and let him feel that freedom he does when he's up above the clouds.

Clay held Junior's letter in his hands for a while and then he carefully folded it and placed it back in the toy footlocker. As he stood to leave the room, he heard the jets from Vance Air Force Base fly overhead. He remembered how Junior would always look up to the sky whenever he heard a plane. He looked up now knowing that Junior had died doing what he loved.

mannixmannixmannix

When he saw the wrecked rental car, he wondered how he even survived. The hood and half of the passenger compartment were completely submerged in the creek. The windshield cracks spiraled out from his head's point of impact with the glass. Credit cards, receipts and maps were scattered across the bank of the creek. A small suitcase had its contents yanked out and thrown about.

Powers picked up and examined several pieces of debris. He smiled when he found Joe's driver's license. "Hey, your last name is . . "

". . . Mannix."

"Your middle name is Ricardo?"

"My father's best friend in the army in WWI. He was killed in the Meuse Argonne."

"Glad to meet you, Joseph Ricardo Mannix."

"Yeah." Joe examined the skid marks on the wooden planks that signaled the car's plummet off the wooden bridge.

Powers pointed out another set of tracks. "Those aren't tractor or pickup truck tire tracks. Looks like car tire tracks. Skidded right into that field. Somebody else was here."

mannixmannixmannix

Deputy Marshal Rivera strode into the Garfield County Sheriff's Office carrying a manila file jacket with him. His eyes browsed the empty office. A man of medium height and balding entered the reception area from an open office door.

"Morning, what can I do for you . . ."Rivera showed his badge. ". . . Marshal Rivera?"

"Is Sheriff Kline available?"

"You're talking to him."

"About three days ago your office made a fingerprint request on somebody we're looking for. His name is Joseph R. Mannix, a private investigator from Los Angeles. I need your help to find him." Rivera handed him a photo from the manila folder.

"Yep, he's our Joe Doe. He's got amnesia. Can't remember anything but his first name. That's why we fingerprinted him. One of our local farmers found him in his wheat field with a concussion. He's been recuperating out at his farm. Right now he's with Deputy Powers. He took him out to see what's possibly the wreck of his rental car. A Los Angeles PI, you say?" Kline waved Rivera into his office and pointed to a chair in front of his desk.

"Have you noticed anyone in town that you haven't seen before? Someone who doesn't fit the usual tourist types you get around here?"

"Does this involve the Mafia? The witness program?"

"Yes, how did you know?

"One of my deputies noticed a guy, like you said, not one of the usual tourist types we get around here, staying at a motel out by Vance Air Force Base. You want him brought in for questioning?"

"Unless this Mannix remembers what or if he did anything to him, we don't have probable cause."

"I don't like organized crime parking on my doorstep." He picked up his phone and dialed a number. "Dispatch, this is Kline. Have Tim Powers get in here with Joe." Kline returned the phone to its cradle. "I'll help you get this guy anyway I can."

"I have an idea, if Mr. Mannix is willing."

"I'm listening."

"We've already moved our witness, so there's no further problems there . . ."

mannixmannixmannix

Powers and Joe drove away from the car wreck after the deputy signed the authorization to tow Joe's rental car for local tow truck operator. Joe was lost in memories of his accident and his life.

"So," Powers said, "you were being followed by this guy. Why'd you turn off onto a dirt road?"

"I thought I might be able to lose him. You know, no street lights, turn off my lights. That sort of thing."

"Yeah, we see how well that turned out."

"If I hadn't driven into a dead end, it might have worked. Just as I turned around, he turned in and we almost hit head on. I went off the bridge and he went into the field."

"You didn't get a look at him?"

"No, it was too dark and I was too hurt. One thing though, I owe him."

"He's following you for reasons unknown, probably going to do you bodily harm. You owe him?"

"He pulled me from the car. He could have left me there to drown."

"Rightly so, but most likely he needed you alive." Powers rounded the corner to Fox Road. "Now that we've got that part figured out, what about the envelope? Why a blank envelope and blank paper?"

"I agree with Clay on that. He said somebody was messing with me. I didn't know the paper in the envelope was blank. I was told it had instructions on how to contact the lawyers about the estate. The blank envelope must have been a signal. As soon as I handed it to the missing person, he was marked."

"And so were you."

"Yeah, somebody's using me for a bird dog. Why? That's the question I'm going to ask John R. Regan as soon as I can get another rental car and be on my way to Medford."

"That guy's still out there waiting on you."

"This is where I was hoping for a little cooperation from the local sheriff's office."

"Oh, a little game of cat and mouse?"

Joe shrugged. "I don't mind being the mouse as long as I know the cat has a tail."

Powers laughed. "I'll see what I can arrange. Let me know when you plan to leave."

"Thanks for everything."

"Just part of your taxes at work."

"I don't pay taxes here."

"But you pay taxes somewhere."

Joe watched Powers drive away. He had regained his memory and his life. Clay had been right when he guessed he was a cop, a private cop on a missing persons case.

He gazed around the farm and remembered the smells and sounds of farm life: the dual smells of freshly plowed earth and fertilizer, the sound of the irrigation towers spraying droplets of water to the thirsty crops and the sun warming his bones. Clay's farm reminded him of his good memories of growing up in a vineyard in California.

mannixmannixmannix

The ringing phone interrupted Rivera. Kline answered and listened. "Yeah . . . okay . . . tell him as soon as he's finished there, go back and get Joe and bring him in . . . thanks." He hung up the phone. "Powers already dropped Joe back at Mr. Belmore's. He's tied up with the OHP on a collision/death on 81. Also he said seeing the car wreck jogged Joe's memory. He remembers most of what happened to him."

"Good, that's one story I want to hear."

"Now, tell me what this is about. What's Joe involved in and what's he doing in Enid and what are we doing about it?"

mannixmannixmannix

"Clay?"Joe clambered up the two steps to the porch. "Clay! I remem . . ." After he took two steps into the living room, Vincenti slid behind him and jabbed a pistol in his back.

". . . remember? Good, now tell us."

Joe recognized the man holding a gun to Clay's head as Anthony "the Cat" Russo. Now he understood. Somehow he had found Johnny Russo, AKA John R. Regan.

"Move." Vincenti urged Joe further into the living room with another stab of his pistol.

A couple of years ago Adam Tobias told Joe about the new Witness Security Program, how it had been created to encourage the Mafia to rat on itself by giving immunity to squealers in return for their testimony against their former mob bosses. The turncoats got a new life and the bosses got a new address in care of the federal pen.

Clay sat at his place at the kitchen table with Russo standing to his right and slightly in front. "Stay cool, Mannix. I only want to know where Johnny is."

"So you can kill him, kill your son?"

"He's my son! He broke the code." Russo waved his gun at Clay. "It's him or your colored friend here and we both know Johnny's not worth it."

"Wait a minute, Russo, let's make a deal. Johnny for Clay."

"This isn't the DA 's office or the Feds. I don't cut any deals."

"You kill us and that's another charge, probably worse than what you're facing now." Joe inched away from Vincenti.

"Yeah, but at least I'll still be breathing."

"Stop moving, Mannix," Vincenti jabbed his gun deeper.

Clay jumped from the chair. "Joe, don't tell 'em nothing!"

"Shut up! You coloreds been getting too uppity lately."Russo elbowed Clay in the stomach.

Joe launched himself backward and slammed Vincenti into the wall. He knocked the hit man's gun away and reached for his 45. Vincenti knocked it away and punched Joe. He stumbled back onto the sofa. The hit man jumped him and landed punches to Joe's face.

Clay doubled over then suddenly brought his head up and butted Russo on the chin. The mobster fell back onto the kitchen table. Clay grabbed his hand and struggled with him for the gun. They fell to floor causing the gun fire. Tangled and twisted they rolled on the floor each trying to gain control of the gun. It fired again.

When Deputy Powers arrived at Belmore's he heard gunshots. He skidded to a stop and grabbed his radio mic.

"This is Golf Three,10-14. Shots fired. Belmore's farm. I need backup." He rushed from his car to the side of the house and peeked in the window. He glimpsed movement in the living room and hear another gunshot. With his weapon drawn, he kicked in the screen door and tucked and rolled behind the couch.

He popped up pointing his revolver. "Sheriff's Office! Hold it right where you are! Drop your weapon!"

Russo stared at the barrel of the deputy's revolver. He was aiming his pistol down at someone on the floor. The pistol in his hand slipped to the floor. Powers heard grunting and punching. He stood up to peep over the couch and saw Joe ramming a man's head into the wooden floor. Clay laid doubled up on the floor at Russo's feet. "Back off!" Powers indicated for Russo to move away from Clay.

"Joe, stop! It's over. Stop!"While keeping an eye on Russo, the deputy jerked at Joe's shirt. "Joe!"

Joe stopped. He yanked Vincenti upright and rubbed his face into the wall. Smiling at Powers he said, "Glad to see my tax dollars coming to the rescue."

"My pleasure."

Joe held Vincenti upright long enough for Powers to cuff him. Joe and Powers grinned when they heard sound of sirens.

"Clay?" Joe twisted around to look for his friend. "Clay!"He was startled to see Clay on the floor doubled up in pain. He knelt by his side. Clay clutched his hands to his midsection and Joe saw the blood seeping through Clay's fingers.

"Let me take a look." With gentleness, he removed Clay's hands to view the wound. The bullet had torn through Clay's stomach. "Hold on." Joe pulled a towel from the kitchen table to soak up the blood.

"Read Junior's letter. . . right . . . he forgave me," Clay fought to stay conscious. "Never been . . . in a plane."

"Hold this." Joe placed Clay's hand on top of the cloth to secure the make shift bandage. The towel was already drenched in blood. Joe rushed to the bathroom and pulled the towels from the rack. He piled them on the wound trying to stop the blood loss. He laid the afghan from the couch to cover Clay.

"Wanted . . . Junior to take me .. . . oh." Clay gasped in pain.

"Lie still." Joe comforted him."You get well and I'll take you flying." Clay closed his eyes. ". . . Clay, stay with me. Clay!"

Powers touched Joe on the shoulder. "Ambulance is on the way."

Clay opened his eyes. "Hope you fly better . . . than you make coffee."

mannixmannixmannix

The ride to the hospital seemed longer than ten minutes. Joe sat in the passenger seat while the medic tended to Clay. He hadn't felt this helpless since Peggy had been shot. If he hadn't taken the case, if he hadn't tried to shake the man following him, if he hadn't skidded off the bridge, none of this would have happened. For once he wished he was the patient not a passenger.

At the hospital, Clay was rushed into the emergency room. Within a few minutes, Doctor Hampton had him moved into the operating room.

Joe paced the waiting room. A couple of punches from his fight with Vincenti started his head aching again. He eased onto the nearest couch and started massaging his temples.

Deputy Powers tapped him on the shoulder. "Here." He opened his hand to reveal a couple aspirin. Joe took them gratefully. Powers handed him a paper cup of water and sat next to him on the waiting room couch."You ought to get that cut on your face looked at."

"Yeah, later."

"Don't be blaming yourself. You didn't cause this. Russo started this whole mess when he became a gangster. You and Clay just got caught in the middle."

"I know."

"Sheriff Kline and a guy from the Marshal Service are interviewing Russo and Vincenti. Russo's squawking that he won't even give them his zip code without a lawyer. They want to talk to you when they're finished with them."

"Later on that, too."

"Doc Hampton's working on Mr. Belmore. He'll be fine."

"Yeah."

"Geez, I liked you better when you had amnesia."

Joe chuckled. His headache began to ease. "Thanks again. I guess the calvary really does come to the rescue out here in Oklahoma."

"Just remember me in your will." Powers glanced down the hall. "I can't help you with this one, buddy." He pointed his head in the direction down the hall. Joe looked to see Delores making her way toward them. They both stood when she entered the waiting room.

"Miss Delores,"the deputy tipped his hat to her. She ignored him.

"I told you. I _told_ you." She slapped Joe. "You supposed to keep him safe. You supposed . . ." Joe grabbed her hand in midair before she could strike him again.

"I'm sorry." He held onto her hand. In that moment, he knew she had the strength to knock him to the ground. Her hand went limp. "I tried," he said.

"He don't need no more trouble. He just don't need no more."She dropped to the couch and sobbed. ". . . don't need no more . . ."

Joe placed his arm around her shoulder and let her cry. She cried for both of them. After a while, she began to rock and sing. Joe didn't recognize the song, but it comforted him.

mannixmannixmannix

"Delores? Joe?" They looked up to see Doctor Hampton, in operating room scrubs, standing over them. He smiled.

"Barring any complications, in two weeks he'll be back on the farm."

Delores wiped her eyes. "Thank God."

"Thank you, Doctor," Joe said. Joe was relieved. He grinned thinking of the promise he had to keep.

mannixmannixmannix

"You ready for this?" Joe asked Clay.

"Ain't got all day. Got chores, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

Joe and Clay walked to the Piper Cub sitting at the edge of the field. Clay stood and watched as Joe did the preflight walk around of the plane. Then Joe checked the windsock for wind direction.

"Well, get in," Joe urged.

"You sure you know how to fly this thing?"

"Better than I make coffee."

"We're gonna die," Clay teased and got into the passenger seat.

Joe laughed. He knew it would be a great day for flying.

The End


End file.
